


Younger than the Sun

by east_wind



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, Multi, Post-Canon, Team Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-08 12:58:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11647035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/east_wind/pseuds/east_wind
Summary: The thing about teams: there's always someone to save your day.





	Younger than the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> Content warning for attempted sexual assault. Details (mild spoilers) at the end.

Gaby’s particular brand of beauty gave her a wide-eyed air of innocence. She’d known it since she was a young girl, and learned to use it quickly- it was how she’d brought in her now-partners, after all, highly competent spies that they were.

What Monsieur Beaulieu did not know was that Gaby knew this about herself, and he played right into her pink-manicured hands. He had begun their afternoon by plying her with an extravagant lunch, and treating her to a tour of Paris’s grandest sights, and in return she gave him demure, fawning awe. As the sun began to set, however, Gaby’s sense told her that things were beginning to go wrong.

“Well, Monsieur-”

“Please, cherie, call me Armand, I insist-”

“ _Armand_ , today has been lovely, but I really do think I must be going home.”

“Ah, but my dear Annelie, I had so much more planned,” he said, taking her hands in his. “You would not wish to miss the Parisian opera, I imagine?”

“I am sure it is splendid,” she said, pulling her hands back, “but I’m afraid I’m much too tired tonight- I am not accustomed to so many experiences all in one day.”

He loomed closer, dripping with courtesy. “You may rest in the car, if it pleases you, on our way to the theatre. Please, mademoiselle, you would not deny this poor gentleman the honor of escorting you, would you, not after all I’ve done for you today?”

Gaby straightened her shoulders slightly, projecting less melting innocence and more resolve. “I must decline, Monsieur. You were too kind to me today, my chaperone in this great city, but now I insist upon returning home. I could see you again tomorrow, perhaps? I would love to go- boating,” she added, laying on the charm in a hurry. His expression had grown worryingly dark.

“Boating, hm, Annelie? Out all alone with me, on the water somewhere?” Gaby suddenly hated where he was going with that, but before she had done more than tense her muscles to pull away he had grabbed both of her wrists. She took quick stock of their surroundings- largely deserted, with night coming on fast, _damn!_ She was beginning to see that she’d severely underestimated her foppish mark. He pulled her closer by her wrists. “If that was all you wanted, you should have said something sooner.”

All his courtly mannerisms were gone now, his speech regaining the rough edge of the street boy he’d been before a lucky inheritance had launched him into the gentry. (And then, of course, his criminal connections had launched him into THRUSH. Yes, Gaby could see her mistake quite clearly now.) “Monsieur, I’m sure I don’t understand-”

He thrust a knee between her legs. “I think you understand well enough, _putain_ -”

“Get your hands off me!” Gaby shouted, but he tightened his grip on her wrists so she couldn’t pull away.

“I see right through you now, you bitch. When were you going to do it? At the opera? You thought you could rob me blind but I’m not that stupid, am I?”

Gaby had time to be relieved, even as he tried to press his body against hers. He was closer to the mark than he thought, but still wrong about her true intentions. His intentions, however, were abundantly clear. She had only a moment to consider, as he grasped both her wrists in one hand and was about to shove the other up her skirt when she slammed her heel down on his toes, yanked her hands out of his suddenly relaxed grip, and jabbed him in the eye with two knuckles. A welcome distance between them allowed her to kick him square in the solar plexus, dropping him to the ground. A street lout and a fop, but clearly no fighter. Gaby was thankful for every practice round she’d gone with Illya in the last year. Pressure to Beaulieu’s windpipe rendered him unconscious, and Gaby took only a few seconds to conceal him off the main street before she ran like hell for the hotel.

She hadn’t been crying when she left Beaulieu, but sometime between there and the hotel she’d started, and she hadn’t stopped by the time she pushed into the room and locked the door behind her. Napoleon was already there, deep into a glass of something and staring out the window, but he got up hastily when he heard her.

“Gaby?” He ventured towards her back as she hurried into the bedroom.

“ _Don’t_ , Napoleon, just- give me a fucking minute,” and his heart felt strange in his chest but he knew that tone, hadn’t heard it in Gaby’s voice yet but had certainly heard it before, and he gave her a fucking minute.

Gaby shut the bedroom door, took off necklace, earrings, bracelets, with shaking hands, stripped out of her dress, and locked herself into the bathroom, breathing hard. She leaned her hands on the cool marble of the counter and tried to take deep, even breaths and stop _crying_. After a while of that, she got herself moving and into the shower, where she rested her forehead on the tile wall and let the water run over her.

When she came back into the living room, face wiped clean of makeup and hair loose and wet over her back, wearing sweatpants and a shirt so gigantic even Illya couldn’t have worn it outside, Napoleon was relieved to see that she looked somewhat better. At least she wasn’t crying. He’d seen her cry twice, so far, once in the earliest days of their partnership when they’d finally slowed down and she’d sat between Napoleon and Illya on the couch and cried all night for her father, and the other time when Illya proposed to her for real. Other than that, she had always been dry-eyed and ready to roll with the emotional punches, which meant that something on her job had gone horribly wrong.

She came and sat next to him on the couch, and poured herself a generous shot into his glass. “What am I about to be drinking?”

“Gin. Would you like-”

“Eugh. No.” She threw back the shot and winced. “I don’t know how you enjoy this stuff.”

“I don’t,” Napoleon said, and hoped she wouldn’t ask him more. The last thing she needed after whatever hellish afternoon she’d had was to hear about his hellish afternoon.

Fortunately (or unfortunately, given what it said about her emotional state) she let it go, and silently poured herself another, much smaller, drink. She didn’t drink it, though, just set it on the table and leaned back into the couch, tucking her knees up into her chest. It made her look very small.

After a number of minutes of silence, Napoleon shifted. “Did you- would you like to-”

His uncharacteristic fumbling caught Gaby’s attention, and she pierced him with a look.

He sighed. “Do you think it would help to talk about it?”

There was no question about the “it” to which he was referring. “No,” she said immediately, then, “yes. I don’t know.”

“Those would be all of your options,” he said, but his tone was very gentle. “It’s okay if you don’t want to. I won’t ask you about it any more.”

She wrapped her arms around her knees, pulling them closer. “No, I just- I made a mistake with Beaulieu. For a moment I thought he had exposed my cover. I underestimated him and it almost cost us the job.”

Napoleon nodded, subtle encouragement. He was certain that this wasn’t the root of the issue. They’d all blown things like that before, sometimes disastrously.

“Christ. He tried to rape me, Napoleon. I knocked him out and left him in an alley and got the hell out.” She started crying again, without seeming to notice.

Horror and deep, directionless anger coiled in Napoleon’s stomach. He reached a hand out, but left it a careful distance from her shoulder. “Is this- may I?”

Gaby shook her head. “Don’t- I appreciate it, but just don’t right now, okay?”

“Okay. Is there anything-?”

She shook her head again. “How was your day?”

“Oh- fine, routine work. I’m in good shape for the next phase.”

Gaby brushed tears off her cheeks like an afterthought and looked at him, eyes narrowed. “Napoleon.”

“Yes?” He summoned every ounce of guileless nonchalance he had and put it into the word.

“You never drink gin unless you’re upset. What happened today?”

“Damn spies,” he said, but there was no force behind it. “I met with De Vetis. We exchanged- dialogue.”

 _Threats_ , Gaby read between the lines, _or innuendo, or both_.

“He had some information that he was willing to give me, in exchange for a service from me in the future.”

“That service being?”

“His life, spared.”

Gaby watched the set of his jaw carefully. She unlocked her arms from around her knees and moved to curl her feet up next to her on the couch. “You don’t have to tell me. I’ll stop asking you about it.”

Napoleon considered for a long time, sipping from the glass she’d poured earlier, refilling it, and finishing the new glass. Finally, just when Gaby was ready to let him be and get up, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You might remember that I’d heard that my sister was not, in fact, dead?”

Gaby did remember. _Oh, no, Napoleon-_

“I had apparently heard incorrectly. He had pictures.” For an awful moment she thought he was going to cry, but he only blinked hard and breathed a little faster than normal, and pulled himself together. She wasn’t sure if it was for the best or not. “I hadn’t seen her... in a long time.”

Gaby poured herself another glass of gin. She was starting to see the appeal of it.

“I won’t be sparing his life, in case you were wondering.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“If I see Beaulieu after the job is finished, am I allowed to kill him?”

“Only if you beat Illya to it.”

“I would be cautious, telling him, by the way. We need Beaulieu alive and responsive until this is over.”

“I’ll handle talking to Illya however I please,” she said, and Napoleon was deeply glad to hear that dangerous edge back in her voice. “But yes. You have a point.”

“I often do, you’ll find.” He got up, fetched another glass, and sat back down, pouring them both an equal measure.

Gaby threw hers back, never one to pass up a friendly challenge. “If we’re getting trashed, can we have something other than gin?”

“It’s kind of tradition- but for you, my dear, anything.” He got up to switch the gin for bourbon, but didn’t miss Gaby’s shudder.

“Sorry- Beaulieu.”

“Understood, I’m sorry.” Napoleon saw it as just one more of the bumps in the invisible landscape between the three of them- between the three of them, it was a hell of a bumpy landscape. He’d know to watch out for it, now, like they had all learned to watch out. He considered the fact that he was perhaps a little bit drunk.

When Illya came home well after dark, soaked through with rain, Gaby and Napoleon were sitting on the floor, half-propped against the couch. A record was playing dance music that had clearly been forgotten, and Illya moved to turn it down. Not that it was disturbing the other two, as he saw when he moved in from the doorway. They were quite asleep, Gaby tucked up under Napoleon’s arm. Illya felt a spark of jealousy kindle in his chest, but it was mollified when he gently extricated Gaby and she pressed a sleepy kiss against his lips.

“Missed you, today,” she whispered into his collarbone. “Wish you had been here tonight.”

“Next time,” he promised, and kissed her forehead after she got into bed. “Love you.” It was still a thrill every time he said it to her, for real, not as part of a job or a cover.

She smiled, and Illya suspected that it was still just as wonderfully new for her, too. “I love you more.” They could go on like that, sometimes, accompanied by Napoleon’s teasing groans, but she was already asleep again.

Illya moved back to Napoleon, who had stirred in Gaby’s absence, and hauled him to his feet. He was softer, looser in his movements than usual. Illya didn’t ask what they’d been up to, how much they’d been drinking. He’d find out tomorrow.

“Peril,” Napoleon murmured, startling Illya. “What would we do without you?” Even through sleep and alcohol the question held more gravity than Illya was prepared for, and he noted with concern the broken look on Napoleon’s face, usually so well guarded.

Acting mostly on instinct, and secure in the knowledge that Napoleon would almost certainly have no memory of this tomorrow, Illya wrapped him up in a hug. To his horror, Napoleon pressed his face into Illya’s shoulder and he shook slightly with what could have been sobs. “Shh,” Illya said, at a loss. “Sh. Whatever happened- it is past. It will be better in the morning.” He realized with a jolt that the words were an echo of his mother’s, from long ago. He hadn’t had cause to remember them, much less use them, in many years. The surprises, that this team still drew from him.

He put Napoleon, already dozing on his feet, into bed and withdrew to the balcony for a moment. Whatever had happened to his teammates- his friends- _loved ones_ , said a traitorous thought- he would find out in the morning, and they would deal with it together. For now, they were safe, and he was there to look after them.

**Author's Note:**

> Content warning: A man that Gaby is courting, under an assumed identity, for a job, turns on her and attempts, unsuccessfully, to rape her. He does not undress her and is stopped before touching more than her thigh.
> 
>  
> 
> I don't recommend using alcohol to cope with emotional trauma, by the way. Save that for the spies.
> 
> On an entirely different tone: Two songs I listened to on repeat while writing this! Van Morrison's Into the Mystic, which I sourced the title from, and Touch Me by The Doors. Both released too late for me to work them into the actual writing, but you can feel them if you look.  
> (And yes, this is definitely pre-polyamory. And not too long before it, either!)
> 
> Edit 3/6:  
> Come talk to me on tumblr! ventum-orientalem.tumblr.com  
> (It's east_wind in Latin because sometimes you just gotta be pretentious like that)


End file.
